


Sweets to the Sweet

by fluidstatic



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen, Gift Giving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2019-03-30 13:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13952376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluidstatic/pseuds/fluidstatic
Summary: Balthier risks life and limb for a simple Solstice gift. Surprisingly, Fran doesn't murder him.





	Sweets to the Sweet

Balthier palms his prize from one hand to the other and slips it quick as death into his empty pouch.

"Is that... it's him, innit?"

"It's him!"

Heth, and bugger all.

"Catch 'im an' box 'im, boys!"

Balthier breaks into a dead sprint from nothing. He is quick, if nothing more, and these illiterate slumping street-constables are hardly used to footraces in the bitter cold. Praising whatever relevant gods he can invent for the blessing of dimwitted cream-fed officials, he feints left into a crowd of shoppers and saunters as casually as he dares round a corner, emerging onto the next street. But Trant's constabulary has been issued radios, and a small knot of officials are staring at him. So much for one hand not knowing what the other is doing. Even dimwits can be threatening in large numbers.

"There!"

Hissing distaste, Balthier slips behind an abandoned bazaar cart, ducks, and commences to rearrange his escape plans. Reduced to stealing outright from an Archadian bazaar in broad daylight, and now - Caught? He curses under his breath.

"Where...? Bugger it – that pirate bastard, if'n 'e knows what's good for 'im we'll 'ave our man alive, eh?"

The bloodlust in the voice is familiar, and an unwelcome reminder that he's doing this alone (solitary runs are never his forte). If he slips free of his pursuers, there's no guarantee he'll live; Fran will likely have his throat under her heel for this little farce. Worse yet, if Vaan catches sight of him running for his life, there will be mockery to contend with from his ill-bred mouth forever. So much for unfailing adoration and respect.

He counts to three and sprints again. He darts north into the entryway of a gambitry shop, catches sight of familiar black-tipped ears a few meters away. Fran jerks her head southward and disappears. He follows, watching at every side for the constabulary.

Fran folds her arms. "You've been shopping," she scolds. "Ka'bjat s'dhei, ma'tec -"

Balthier barks a short quiet laugh at the shrewish expression on her face, lobs a rosy grapefruit the size of an infant's head into her hand. Weighted by the wealth of its own juices, the fruit radiates cold sour pleasantness, a ball of sunlight in Fran's slender palm, coloring the air with tropical decadence.

"They say... the last delicacy... for a traveller... is a taste of childhood," Balthier explains, through puffs of white breath. "That's real Golmori citron, and the fattest I could find. Likely shipped in on trade by your kindred wandering sisters in Balfonheim. A favourite of yours, I believe."

Fran's lips twitch. Balthier doesn't miss the glimmer of nostalgia in her eye; she sinks into thoughts of golden light drifting through heavy waxen leaves of grapefruit trees, lemon groves, oranges fat and leathery, winter sunlight waiting to spray sticky wealth on her fingers and tongue. He grins.

"Hume-child," Fran remarks at last, incredulous, "I would be reluctant to mourn your lot if you were imprisoned in the name of a grapefruit."

"I considered the eventuality of prison," Balthier admits, smirking, "...perhaps an overdue hanging. But we both know either option ruins my vacation plans, and that a man of twenty can take care of himself." He arranges himself against a lamp-post, jerks his chin at her. "Go on. Eat."

But Fran's eyes glint again; she shifts her weight and brings her hand from behind her back, clutching a small paper bag tied with silk ribbon. A frostbitten sugary smell saturates the plain brown paper, greasy red ink stamped on the package boldly declaring Peppermints.

"Fran. At least a grapefruit is worth its weight in sweat and aggravation," Balthier protests. "You'd put yourself on the chopping block for a bag of penny candy?"

Fran raises her brows, unimpressed. "You do not like them," she says.

"Don't be frigid, I adore them." Balthier tears open the bag, plucks a green-striped splintering hard candy from within, pops it into his mouth. Powdered sugar dusts his fingers and lips. The decadent cold glow of mint blooms in his mouth, and a long moment of childlike delight crawls by before he catches Fran smiling at him.

"It is the shortest day of the year," she says, leaning smugly against the alley wall, passing the grapefruit from hand to hand.

"What with the crush of pedestrians in the street and running for my godless life I hadn't noticed the fortuitous placement of the sun," Balthier drawls, cocking an eyebrow at the grapefruit in her hand. "Really, you'd best make quick work of that, love, before someone sees it's gone missing."

Fran's long pink fingernail pierces the thick leathery rind of Balthier's gift, spraying the sour perfume of sunlight over both of them. She sections a piece of cold pink flesh from the white rind, inspects it fondly.

"If they find us, we run – and you'll not have a mouthful of sweets to choke upon, yes?"

Balthier makes a noise of sarcastic disdain and pops another sticky candy in his mouth, defiant as a child. Resigned, Fran slips a bit of grapefruit into her mouth, savors, and finally allows herself a silent sigh of joy. Nostalgia washes over them both – the pleasure of childhood winters, and little gifts more precious than gold borne from loving hands.

"Happy Solstice, Ffamran," Fran says at last, her mouth shining with juice. Her smile is shy, her ears shivering with cold, delighted. Baltheir's never seen her in such transports of happiness, and to his astonishment he feels the same, delighted to be penniless and cold on such a wintry day.

"Ka'djn Liith'e, Fran," he replies, his diction perfect, the sentiment true. The clouds break apart to leak a shaft of warm morning sunlight over him and he turns his face into its glow, dropping yet another peppermint into his mouth.


End file.
